


Soul Bound

by rougewinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sentinel AU, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rougewinter/pseuds/rougewinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentinel AU. <i>He walks the now-familiar path he’s dreamt a thousand nights before. He makes his way as if called, a slave to his instincts despite already knowing what awaits him once he reaches his destination.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ambikai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambikai/gifts).



> For the fantastic Ambikai who prompted for a [Mystrade Sentinel AU](http://rougewinter.livejournal.com/8280.html). Hope you like it bb! Sorry it took so long. Mycroft’s spirit animal is a bobcat. I wanted to make it cake but the ever sensible Alphera talked me out of it. *huff*
> 
> Without the ever wonderful [alphera](http://alphera.livejournal.com), this wouldn’t have been half as good as I wanted it to be.
> 
> Chinese translation work by Eva Lee can be found [here](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=100733&extra=) or [here](http://blog.yam.com/blueblood33/article/70977936).

It always starts like this.

He makes his way through the dense, dark forest; slivers of moonlight that peek through the foliage guide his path, though he does not need them. His sense of smell and sound compensate for what he cannot see. 

He walks the now-familiar path he’s dreamt a thousand nights before; the cold chill of the night air seeping into his bones despite his thick fur while his soft padded paws crunch the dried leaves beneath him, loud and stark against the eerie quiet of the jungle. He makes his way as if called, a slave to his instincts despite already knowing what awaits him once he reaches his destination. 

Stopping just by the edge where shadow meets light, he peers through the gaps in the leaves and watches, a quiet observer to the scene he’s seen a thousand times before. 

Upon a mound sits a silver fox, whose lustrous coat shines brighter than the moon and whose eyes glow even brighter still. The fox does not notice his presence, or perhaps does not care. Instead the fox looks up to the sky, attention focused solely on a speck above them both. 

He knows what it is from nights gone by; a sparrow flittering from branch to branch, carefree and basking in the fox’s appreciative gaze.

The bird flutters and twitters, does twirls in the air, and even once comes close to the fox’s nose as if to drop a kiss. The fox yips and jumps, now spurred into action, and chases after the bird once the sparrow flies away, leaving his silent spectator behind. 

That is how it always ends. 

\--

It starts like it always does.

That is until he reaches the clearing. 

Upon a mound lies a fox, whose once lustrous coat is now tangled and matted with dirt, and whose eyes that once glow bright have now dimmed. He sits and watches for a quiet moment, waiting to see if the sparrow would appear, but the only sign of life around was the fox’s soft breathing that echoed his own. 

Taking a bold step into the moonlight, he walks towards the fox, mindful not to startle the other being. It is only when his paw snaps a twig on the ground that the fox finally realises he’s there, lifting its head and turning towards him. He stops, unsure if his presence is welcome, for this has never happened in the thousand nights before, but he is captivated by the fox’s intense gaze all the same. 

The fox slowly rises, moves to close the gap between them with hesitant steps. It stops in front of him once they were muzzle to snout and, at this distance, he can see red marks on the fox’s cheek – gashes left by the sparrow’s talons. 

He listens to his instincts, leans forward to lick the wound, carefully lapping around the fox’s nose and eye with his coarse tongue. He feels a jolt run through him at the contact and he knows the fox felt it too.

When he leans back, he sees what looks like happiness and contentment in the fox’s eyes, and the way those orbs began to regain their warm glow… he can only describe them as radiant. 

This is not at all how it used to end. 

\--

This is how it starts. 

He makes his way through the clinical, sterile halls of the infirmary; fluorescent lights that flicker above him guide his way, though he does not need them. His familiarity with these corridors enable him to find his way even with his eyes closed. 

He walks the ever-familiar path he’s walked a hundred instances before; the cold recycled air of the building’s ventilation system seeping into his bones despite the thick coat he’s wrapped around himself. His hard-soled leather shoes click against the polished floor beneath him, loud and stark against the eerie quiet of the hospital. He makes his way as if called, a slave to his duties as an older sibling despite already knowing what awaits him once he reaches his destination. 

Stopping just by the entrance to Sherlock’s private room where light meets shadow, he peers through the door’s glass window and watches, a quiet observer to the scene he’s seen a hundred times before. 

Beside his brother’s bed sits a silver-haired Detective Inspector, whose once pristine black coat is now bloodied and scuffed with traces of dirt and whose brown eyes that once shone with hopeful brilliance are glazed and introspective. He stands outside and watches for a quiet minute, waiting to see if his brother would awaken, but the only sign of Sherlock’s life is the steady beeping of the machines that keep his brother breathing. 

Taking the door handle and twisting it open, he enters the room, mindful that he doesn’t startle the other man. It is only when he taps his umbrella lightly on the ground that the detective finally realises he’s there, moving to stand and turn towards him. Lestrade stops short, unsure if his presence by Sherlock’s side is welcome, yet he stays calm before Mycroft’s intense gaze all the same.

Mycroft raises a brow slowly, taking into account the man’s haggard look and the missing wedding ring. He moves to close the gap between them with hesitant steps. He stops in front of the detective once their shoes are toe to toe and, especially at this distance, he can clearly see red cuts on Lestrade’s cheek – scratches left by an angry ex-wife’s nails. 

He acts on pure instinct, reaches to lightly brush the wound, carefully grazing the area beside Lestrade’s nose and eye with his thumb. He feels a jolt run through him at the contact and he knows the detective feels it as well.

When he pulls back, Lestrade’s firm grip on his wrist stops him. He sees what must be hope and healing in the man’s brown eyes. The way Lestrade smiles at him makes his heart glow with immense warmth, and he can only describe it as being complete. 

This is not how it ends.

This is how they begin. 

-fin-


End file.
